Strictly Business
by milverton
Summary: Sherlock and John try out being "friends with benefits." It was nice, for a bit.
1. Chapter 1

"Why don't we just have sex."

John nearly drops his mug full of steaming-hot tea, but he's so well-versed in being shocked by Sherlock while in the process of tea-making and tea-drinking that he averts the possible disaster of steaming-hot liquid searing through his thin pyjama cloth.

John snorts. "Good one, Sherlock. You almost got me there."

"This is not an attempt at humour, John."

John shakes his head, smiling disbelievingly into his tea as he takes a sip. It burns on the way down, but it feels absolutely heavenly.

"I'm being pragmatic," Sherlock's voice tells him matter-of-factly.

John exits the kitchen and shuffles into the sitting room where Sherlock stares at him, expression as stoic as ever. He can't be serious. "You're not serious," John articulates with a crooked smile.

Sherlock huffs and grips the arms of his leather chair, shooting himself to a stand. He moves so quickly that John recoils a bit when Sherlock's in front of him, looming, six feet of inescapable brooding and arrogance. John simply raises a brow as Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You just broke up with…Mallory. Karina. Emily—"

"Mary," John supplies.

Sherlock dismisses the name with a flutter of his hand. "Whatever. You were just telling me you're completely done with relationships."

"How about that! You were listening to my ranting. I should give you more credit."

Sherlock ignores him. "And all you want to do is get a leg over without the messy emotional attachment. I saw you browsing through your mobile contacts earlier trying to decide which ex-girlfriend you could booty call."

John guffaws. Because, really. "You did not just say booty call." The amusement lasts only until the point where John realises Sherlock knew precisely what he was thinking. John frowns.

"But you decided it would be fruitless," Sherlock trudges on, disregarding anything John says at this point, apparently. "All of them were far too emotionally invested in you to be able to have sex again without petty_ feelings_ getting in the way."

Wrong. John's smug because Sherlock's wrong. There were two women who broke it off with _him_.

John's about to hand Sherlock a nice, hot serving of ego-blast when Sherlock interrupts. "Ah, yes. At least two of them broke up with you."

"God damnit."

"So?" Sherlock says, impatient and still completely serious. John blinks and shakes his head.

"So, what!" John says in a fit of passion. He huffs out a laugh and looks at Sherlock with wild eyes. The proposition is ludicrous really, because—"Sherlock, are you even attracted to me?"

Sherlock doesn't respond right away, he lets the silence stretch. He scans John's person with a bored gaze then mumbles something that sounds like, "You have well-trimmed cuticles."

John gives him a look. "…really."

"Eyes." Sherlock looks away with a flutter of his eyelashes. Is he playing _coy? _Fucking hell.

"Pardon?" John leans in, not quite sure he heard correctly.

"Eyes! You have blue eyes."

"Well, I never. Thank god you're a detective."

"They're, um," he clears his throat, "Nice." Sherlock looks at him earnestly.

That merits two eyebrow-raises from John. Sherlock's completely serious. He's not taking the piss. Does he really think John has nice eyes, or is it a ploy? Not that it'd be a very effective ploy. Saying one has nice eyes doesn't exactly get one's bones jumped.

Sherlock's too unreadable and John hates it. He can read almost everyone else in this cesspool of a town, but Sherlock Holmes is the one man who hides behind twenty brick walls and obscures his feelings. Damn him and his flawless acting. Damn him and his perfected art of stoicism. John shakes his head vehemently. "It's a really bad idea." It could ruin everything between them as friends, this. John's not sure he'd want to risk that.

Sherlock gives him that look that screams how _fucking daft are you_? "No, it's really not. It's perfectly practical. I'm emotionally barren and you're emotionally bored. We'll both benefit physically and we don't have to worry about it mucking up our…the relationship we have now because, well, there won't be any extraneous feelings," Sherlock says the word feelings like it's stuck to the bottom of his (expensive) shoe, "involved and we shall remain…the same as we are."

"I don't want what we have to be completely ruined."

"This is strictly business, John. A business proposition. It has nothing to do with our, um, current relationship. If anything, it will enhance it." Sherlock says softly, sincerely.

John considers. Sherlock does have a point. Points. Though, when does he not? That man could convince a criminal he was on his side (he has). John clears his throat and looks Sherlock up and down and comes to a conclusion. He's not exactly getting a bad deal here.1

John scrubs a hand down his face. "Christ, Sherlock. Last time I had sex with a bloke was, oh, two whole decades ago."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It's just like—"

"—riding a bike. Yeah, yeah." John tea's cold so he places the mug down onto the side table. He straightens himself and gives Sherlock another once-over. It could take his mind off Mary, that's for sure. It could do a lot of things to his mind, actually.

Fine. To hell with everything—to sanity, to dignity, to relationships—John's going to fuck his best friend tonight. John spreads out his palms and holds up his arms in (not a considerably painful) defeat. "Why the hell not? You better not get mushy on me."

Sherlock scoffs and looks truly offended. "John, please. Have you met me?"

John shrugs. "Yeah, okay. Fine. Let's do this."

Sherlock brightens, looks at John like he's suddenly become brilliant. "My bedroom."

They start disrobing and John realises he should probably warn Sherlock about a few things. "Oh, um, just so you know. I'm, ah, I like dirty talk. Sometimes, not always, it just slips out. It's a compulsion or something."

"Yes, I figured," Sherlock says while undoing the last button of his shirt and removing it to reveal an expanse of lithe paleness, which John takes a moment of his precious time to admire. Sherlock drapes the shirt over his chair and starts on his trousers.

Oh, wait. "How—"

"Army. Obvious. Something you've just never grown out of. I pull things."

"I beg pardon?" John says, distracted, neatly folding his jeans onto Sherlock's desktop. He pulls his t-shirt over his head as Sherlock speaks.

"I. pull. things," Sherlock says, sounding annoyed at repeating himself no doubt. "Hair. Skin. Whenever I get fucked, I need to hold onto a bit of the person."

John clears his throat and cracks his neck, pre-gaming. "Right-o." He pulls down his pants. When he looks up, Sherlock's completely nude, arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock glares at John's cock for what feels like a long, judgmental time then shrugs bony shoulders, resigned. "Acceptable."

John purses his lips. He's not going to get offended by the person he's about to have sex with. The person who is Sherlock, his best friend. Sherlock. He drops his gaze from Sherlock's face and nods with approval, evening the score. "Yeah, I can work with that."

Sherlock collides into him and pushes him onto the bed so that he's supine. John's hands immediately gravitate to Sherlock's arse as Sherlock's soft, hungry lips engulf his own. John pulls him close, so close and their cocks rub together in sweet friction and a fun little switch turns on in John. "Nice, plump arse. Can't wait to fuck it 'til it's raw." John digs into Sherlock's bum with fervour to be true to his word.

As John moves his hands up to Sherlock's back, he realises how smooth Sherlock is. John bets that's why he always needs so much bloody milk, because he bathes in the stuff.

Sherlock slithers down John's body, licks his lips, and eases his mouths onto John's _acceptable_ length. "Oh, yeah," John grits out.

Sherlock's slick lips slide gracefully back and forth around John's now-hard cock. Sherlock's face has disappeared in a mess of dark curls. John looks up to the ceiling with laboured breath.

Sherlock does something magnificent with his tongue, then drags his teeth down John's length, leaving John to cry—_more, more. Let me fuck your dirty, gorgeous mouth until you gag_—but unfortunately stops and removes himself with a pop.

John pulls Sherlock up, flips their positions and leans in to bite at Sherlock's cheekbones, because he's always had a desire to touch them, so why not with his teeth? the left one, then the right, then nip at his top lip, on the centre of the Cupid's Bow. John travels down Sherlock's arm, chest and protruding hip bone with his mouth and, damn, this man is a bean-pole until he reaches Sherlock's cock. He grabs it and strokes indulgently, slowly, then tugs at his balls. He looks up to watch variants of enjoyment pass through Sherlock's face. It's so—

"Fucking beautiful, god. I want you to do more than look like that. I want you to scream like you're. Like you're. Um." John's hand stills in place as he blanks.

"Oh for god's sake. Just get the lube."

"Right." John reaches for the lube and, feeling a bit dejected, slicks himself quietly.

Sherlock tuts. "Come off it."

"What?"

"You couldn't think of anything to say so now you're embarrassed."

John doesn't look up. "I'm fucking my best friend, who I have to see every bloody day and am not in a relationship with. I'm past being embarrassed."

"Don't lie to me. _I don't care._ You could be singing God Save the Queen and I wouldn't be bothered. I just want you to fuck me."

"That's the plan, thanks. I'm getting there." John plunges a lubed finger inside Sherlock, and he arches up into it.

"Another," Sherlock pleads. John plunges another finger, then another, tickling Sherlock's prostate with lively fingers. Sherlock's moaning and fucking himself on John's fingers, grabbing onto the duvet with clawed-hands, knuckles going white, eyes shut tight. He's in bliss.

"Fucking hell." John watches wide-eyed as Sherlock descends on his fingers like they're the last morsels in a post-apocalyptic universe. "No, thank you for asking, I'm certain I wouldn't mind watching this longer but you're going to spoil the fun."

Sherlock flings open his eyes when John removes his fingers, and scowls. "I didn't ask you to stop."

"No, but by the look of you it wasn't going to last very long and I wouldn't be getting much out of it. This is a mutually beneficial fling, remember?"

Sherlock grunts and pushes John away, actually shoves his chest, so he can turn to get on his hands and knees. He presents his arse, and John takes hold of it carefully and positions the head of his cock in between Sherlock's cheeks. For some reason, John tenses and is hit with some strange feeling that tells him what he's doing is a bad idea despite the fact that he really, really wants to drive himself into Sherlock until he screams so loud it wakes up Arthur and Harry next door, who are notoriously deep-sleepers.

"You're extremely slow," Sherlock whinges.

"And you're a big baby. Just. Wait."

Sherlock makes an irritated noise. "Come on!" He tries to push back but John doesn't let him.

"Shut up for just one bloody second. I need a moment."

Sherlock drops his heads between his arms and sighs dramatically. "You know, I think I miss the dreadful dirty talk."

"I thought you didn't care!"

"Perhaps it's lower on my priorities than the act of you sticking your cock inside me. Now is most certainly not the time to contemplate your life choices and I know you haven't done this in awhile but—"John pushes into the tightness and Sherlock shuts up instantly. John smirks. He could get used to this method of shutting Sherlock Holmes' (unbelievably talented) arrogant mouth. Sherlock reaches back to grab a hold of the flab on John's thigh and pulls, yes, very hard indeed.

"Ow!" John cries.

"I told you," Sherlock says, breathless. The grip doesn't loosen. John's sure it's going to bruise.

"Fuck," John says, moving back and forth slowly and trying to ignore the pain.

"Actually, I don't want this angle," Sherlock manages to sound haughty through staggered breaths and dislodges from John's cock. He points at the pillows. "Sit. Now."

John huffs out an annoyed breath and sits with his feet flat on the duvet, legs spread slightly. Sherlock straddles his thighs and eases down, taking John to the root.

"Fuck. Yes. God, yes. That's fucking fantastic. Ride me." John groans as Sherlock wiggles his hips a bit. Sherlock reaches out and grabs John's jaw, scratching against stubble, and begins to fuck himself heartily on John. Sherlock's hands move to John's cheek, where he pulls at the skin.

"Fherlock."

Sherlock's not listening, his eyes are closed and he's having the time of his life on John's cock and John wishes he could be having the time of his life too, but his cheek is being pulled off his face and it hurts like hell.

"Fherlock! Jesus fuckin fhrist."

"Jooohn," Sherlock moans as he strokes himself with his free hand. "Yessss," he says and comes all over his hand with a shudder. He removes himself from John, and John tries to remain calm.

"You know what I learned today? I don't have a cheek-pulling fetish," John says, his cock still straining and leaking.

"Oops." Sherlock says, but it doesn't sound very apologetic. Sherlock crawls atop him like a cat and takes John in his hand, stroking, staring John directly in the eye. That just about does it. John's brain turns off and he forgets about everything and soon he's coming over Sherlock's glorious, wonderful, beautiful hand.

Sherlock's put on his robe by the time John comes gathers his senses and he's sitting in a chair across the room, watching John, knees up to his chest.

"Uh. What are you doing?" John asks.

"What do you think I'm doing? Thinking."

"'Bout how good a shag I am?" John says, grinning, getting off the bed to gather his clothes.

"About how many days a week we should do this and in what manner since I was satisfied by the results. What do you say I make a chart?"

"Sure. Hang it up next to the drawing one of my patient's five year old daughter gave me."

"I don't appreciate your sarcasm."

"Sherlock, sex isn't supposed to be so calculated."

"I'd prefer if we knew what we were going to do before we did it, to make things more enjoyable. Though, now that you're over your self-doubt, things with undoubtedly proceed more efficiently."

Damn him. He has a point. Points, again.

Of course Sherlock wouldn't understand the implications of having sex with his best friend. It's not something people usually do. It's not something John ever thought he would feel comfortable with. Despite himself, he really did enjoy it, and he doesn't have to worry about lavishing Sherlock with affections afterwords, beforehand, ever. They could go to crime scenes and come home, have a relieving shag then carry on. Everything will be fine and and easy and fun between them. John's almost certain.

"I'd rather like to use the riding crop next time," Sherlock says, thoughtful. John looks at the maddening, actually quite attractive, bossy man and smiles manically. He's in too deep at this point, might as well go along with it.

"Only if I get to use it on you."

* * *

><p>Yes, okay, I'll admit I was inspired to write this because of that damned movie <em>Friends With Benefits w<em>hich was actually not all that bad, surprisingly (Justin Timberlake can't act very well, but I do like Mila Kunis). I think this just set me up to write some more "bro-ish" kind of sex scenarios, I don't know.


	2. Chapter 2

It's a particularly gruesome scene today. The corpse of interest lies face-down beside a grimy alleyway wall, the back of its head completely mutilated, bits of brain hardened on the wall beside it. The smell is not very pleasant.

Sherlock gets straight to work, portable magnifying glass in tow, crouching and doing his dance around the corpse as he is wont to do. John hangs back with Lestrade and watches.

After ten minutes, Sherlock takes off his coat, strides over to John, plops it in his hands and returns to the corpse. John's frowning down at the new, unwanted material in his arms.

"Does that come in your description? Colleague, blogger, and coat-rack?" Lestrade says with a ridiculously smug grin.

John squares his shoulders, glaring at the back of Sherlock's head. "I wonder how he'd like it if I accidentally dropped this on the _dirty, blood-soaked ground_." Sherlock would go bonkers if his precious coat were to be dirtied up and John loves that Sherlock's unknowingly just given him the power to make him go bonkers.

Sherlock whips his head in John's direction and growls, "I will come after you, John Watson, if you dare do such a thing."

Lestrade bursts out laughing at Sherlock's heavy-handed reaction. John grins then makes a comically pained expression and wobbles his knees. "Oh, my. Oh no! This is so heavy…" John slowly lowers the coat until the hanging sleeves are nearly kissing the ground.

"John," Sherlock warns, standing up straight, attention fixated on John.

"I don't think I can last holding it. It's slipping, slipping, ah, I'm too weak. Fragile…"

The sleeve's almost about touch the ground then suddenly, it's not. Sherlock's crushing his body against John, trapping the coat in between them. Sherlock says, low and guttural, "don't" and the sound reverberates from John's toes to his head.

John's half bent, so he straightens up, pushing up against Sherlock subtly. John gulps and, Christ Almighty, this is getting him more excited than it should.

"Oi, Sherlock! He's just mucking around. Don't get your knickers in a bunch," Lestrade says, maybe, because John's not completely paying attention.

Sherlock licks his lips slowly. John watches the tongue skim over and glisten the pink, plump flesh, and reflects on how wonderful they feel on him, all over him, and wants to claim them right here and now, bite them, suck them, lick them to show his gratitude for the endeavors they've taken to please him. John takes a step back and it's like pulling teeth. Sherlock's wearing a tiny smirk and he steps back too, then turns around sharply and struts back to the corpse and, oh, he's milking it, knows they haven't had sex in nearly 36 hours and John's been suffering from withdrawal. John admits it's a nice sight to watch and tries very, very hard to block away the ensuing reminisces he has with that part of Sherlock's body.

John's not sure how long exactly he's floating but soon returns to reality. John secretly praises the gods and curses Sherlock for the coat and uses it to cover himself, just in case it becomes a full-fledged monster down there in any of the next few minutes. John wrenches his gaze from Sherlock to the Lestrade, who immediately looks away, like he has a secret to hide, and walks over to have a chat with Sally.

When John looks back, Sherlock is heading toward him with an absolutely sinister smirk. Sherlock gets to John's vicinity, his gaze flicks down then back up. He doesn't say anything. John doesn't want to speak first, doesn't want to give Sherlock the satisfaction but he can't help blurting,

"You wanted to get me riled up, you bastard."

"No. Not entirely. I also wanted to assure that you remained holding the coat."

John doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Jesus Christ. You really are an absolute prick, you know that?"

"I think I've been honoured with that title before, yes." Sherlock quirks his lips. "Perhaps I can show you how sorry I am back at the flat? The chart says that yesterday was your day and we're behind schedule."

All irritation forgotten, John couldn't say the word 'yes' faster.

\\

John and Sherlock have been in their "agreement" for almost four weeks now and John's starting to lose his grip.

He can't stop _touching _and _looking. _

He and Sherlock were in Lestrade's office earlier and John had rested his hand on Sherlock's thigh without even thinking about it. When they left Angelo's for lunch, John had put his hand on the small of Sherlock's back, perhaps even lower (but not that low), and _escorted_ him out. They were in the (very crowded) Tube, to Sherlock's dismay, and John couldn't stop staring at Sherlock's delicate (yet devious) hands, wrapped around the pole. Hell, when they went up the stairs just now, John couldn't help watching the hypnotic sway of Sherlock's hips and the shift of his buttocks all the way to into their sitting room.

It's not like they're _together. _But he can't help himself. He's never done this before and he doesn't know when to stop.

John wonders if he's too obvious, if Sherlock's noticed his ogling, he probably has, what does he not notice, and if he feels offended or embarrassed or if he ever feels _anything_—

"It's fine," Sherlock comments blandly from behind his laptop, as if he's inside John's mind at this very moment and laughing at his inner musings.

"Hm?"

"Don't fret. You should be glad you have healthy amounts of testosterone."

"Gee, thanks." John sighs and stares into his cup of tea like it holds the answers to his next perplexing, possibly silly, question.

Does Sherlock?

Sherlock has so much control except when he doesn't need to have control.

When John wants sex that doesn't mean Sherlock necessarily wants sex at that moment too and John can't help but obsess over his _want_. When Sherlock wants sex and John doesn't, well, Sherlock seems as cool as a cucumber. Or is it just an act?

John's never caught _Sherlock_ looking at him with googly-eyes or lingering a bit longer with his touches. In fact, Sherlock's been more distant than usual, lately. But it's hard to measure levels of distance with Sherlock because the man lives and thrives behind a grand bulwark.

John suddenly feels incredibly self-conscious but bats that feeling aside. Perhaps John's over thinking. He's not suppose to feel anything, even self-consciousness, it's in the metaphysical contract he and Sherlock had made. He's suppose to just enjoy and carry on_. _

So, he does. Well, tries.

_\\_

A week later, Sherlock and John end up in Dublin after completing a case, in a swanky hotel funded by the British Government.

"I'm afraid to ask how much this place costs," John says as Sherlock steps out of the bathroom.

"You wouldn't get an answer anyway. Mycroft did this all on his own."

"Naturally, you didn't want to be involved."

"Naturally," Sherlock agrees.

John puts his last pair of socks in the drawer and flops on the soft, Queen-sized bed. He stretches and makes a satisfied noise.

"Wine?" Sherlock asks, heading to the wine rack then gathering two glasses. He knows John too well to know he wouldn't deny a glass of high-end wine. What self-respecting person would, anyway?

"That'd be lovely, thanks."

After Sherlock's poured the dull-coloured wine in both glasses, he hands John's glass over, shakes his own so that the liquid swirls in a graceful twister on the inside, sniffs and sips it daintily. It's a blissful, comfortable quiet that follows until John interrupts.

"So. Harry's birthday is next weekend."

"Well isn't that nice?" Sherlock says and the lilt of his voice is mocking. His attitude doesn't faze John, not anymore, not after all this time.

"I was wondering if you'd could go with me to the surprise party her friends are hosting? I don't think I can bear it alone."

Sherlock turns up his nose and says, "I don't think I could bear _it_." He takes another drink.

John rolls his eyes, places down his glass primly on the side table, rolls onto his side, swings a leg over Sherlock's knees and sits there and gives Sherlock a pleading look. "Come on, Sherlock. _Please_."

Sherlock raises a singular brow and says bemusedly, "Begging? For that?"

"She's my sister, whether I like it or not. Uh, I'm pretty sure you can sympathise with that sentiment. I need to go."

Sherlock shakes his head tersely and says, bored, "But it'll be boring and I'll just sulk the entire time." At least he's honest.

"I'll let you fuck me tonight if you say yes." John hasn't been on the bottom, ever, actually, so he's been unsure how he'd take it. If he'd even like it. He wasn't prepared to do it when Sherlock asked him the other week, but now he's ready. He trusts Sherlock by now.

"You're bartering accompaniment to your sister's birthday party for sex," Sherlock says, putting down his wineglass and sounding extraordinarily more interested.

"It's looks like we've reached that point, haven't we? It's a milestone in every relationship." Sherlock squirms a bit underneath John and damnity damn. That's not what he meant. He was definitely aiming for wry. "I didn't mean that. It's just a joke, I don't actually think we're-"

Sherlock holds up a hand to silence John. John hates that he obliges, but he likes that it's stopped him from rambling on like an idiot. "All right."

"All right?"

Sherlock reaches over and undoes John's zip. "I can't really make do with all those clothes you have on."

"Oh." John exhales in a puff and curses his proclivity to be a bundle of nerves. "Yeah, that'd be a problem," John says, rolling off Sherlock, and wiggling out of his jeans. When John's completely stripped he sits against the bed frame, takes himself in his hand and strokes as he watches Sherlock disrobe from underneath hooded eyes. Sherlock's an aesthetics's dream, okay, fine, John's dream, all angles and pale skim and limbs that stretch for miles with dustings of muscle and violinist hands, too long and spindly and skilled and a perfectly round bottom.

Sherlock crawls onto the bed, plops down and strokes himself with lube until he's erect then settles in between John's spread legs. John's breath is laboured as he watches the lube go into Sherlock's hands and watches Sherlock's hands make the slow travel to the destination between his thighs and, god, he hopes this will be okay.

"I'll go slow," Sherlock assures, slipping in a finger. John shudders at the foreign feeling, clenching and unclenching around Sherlock's finger. It's not entirely comfortable and he closes his eyes to shut out the bits of pain. It's endearing how _caring?_ Sherlock's being about this, not just trudging through. "Just relax," Sherlock looks concentrated, like he's performing an important experiment in John's arse, and he crooks his finger, hitting John's prostate and sending a lightning bolt of pleasure up John's spine.

"Fuck. Okay. Yes. You win. That's fucking good."

Sherlock retreats, and hooks each of John's legs over his shoulders and stares down, fascinated, at his own cock-head, pressed ever-so lightly against John's entrance.

John holds his breath.

"Okay, ready?"

"Yeah," John says, exhaling.

Sherlock breeches him, in, in, in and it feels awkward and too too full and strange at first, but after Sherlock gets his groove and John gets used to it, it begins to feel good, not as good as being on the other side but it's still bloody good.

Sherlock's inside him and it's a strange new world and John feels his heart flutter with the thrill of it all.

Sherlock's still watching his cock slide into and out of John, over and over and over, with sparkling, wide eyes and his hands are gripping the side of John's thighs very, very tightly. John thinks he's immune to the pain given from Sherlock's pulling-shtick by now.

Sherlock's still not looking at him as he grunts and flutters his eyelashes and lets his mouth hang open in a perfect 'o' and thrusts, riding the waves of the storm of his orgasm. John remembers the first time they had sex, Sherlock had looked him directly in the eye while he brought him off. Sherlock had been more vocal, more needy. As they progressed in their "agreement" Sherlock had gradually stopped looking at John, stopped being so vocal and needy. John wasn't sure he understood why.

John thoughts swirl away into a grey mix as he feels his own orgasm creeping up on him. Sherlock's almost about to explode, so John says, low, "Yeah, come on. Come inside me. Fill me up. Do it."

Sherlock comes with an elongated, indulgent moan, shaking a bit. When he's calmed he drops his head and pulls out, cringing. John's leaking with precum already so he strokes himself a few times until he comes over his hand. For a moment after, he just lies there, melting into the mattress. Reluctantly, John gets up to wash his hands and when he returns Sherlock's already tucked himself under the covers.

"Shower?"

"Tomorrow," Sherlock mumbles into the pillow.

John can't help but agree. He climbs into the bed, not bothering to clothe himself, and settles behind Sherlock. He's not touching but there's barely any space between them and John's basking in the warmth and post-coital glow that radiates from Sherlock's body. Sherlock twitches a bit. John traces his finger down Sherlock's spine and says, "Good night, then."

"Good night," Sherlock says quietly. John smiles, and drifts off to sleep.

* * *

><p>Hi. This wasn't supposed to be a plotty storyhave angst but I was hit with some ideas and decided to go on with it. I'm thinking there will be two or three more chapters after this.

Can I just thank the reviewers for being lovely and wonderful for taking the time to comment and encourage me? Thank you to you guys.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry's surprise birthday party is being held at a mid-18th century pub with wooden décor and not much space to bloody _move_. Harry's friends had reserved a table but the place is absolutely packed because it's Friday night. John can't hate the crowd who's collectively on the piss because they look like they've been slaving away at work for the entire week, their faces worn and relieved.

Clara had assured John that Harry was _good_ now. She'd be able to control herself and moderate her drinking. John hopes to God above it's true.

That aside, John thinks the idea of a pub for a surprise party is brilliant. It goes along with Sherlock's catch-line(s) (one of many) "hiding in plain sight" (Sherlock would probably scoff at him for using it in such a trivial way). Harry would never expect it.

John snakes through the crowd, letting Sherlock fend for himself behind, until he sees a group of bright-eyed, middle-aged women sitting at a roundtable. John only knows one of them, Clara, Harry's ex. She's a short, blonde-haired blue-eyed, freckled firecracker. John finds her to be far too energetic to the point where you want to curl up in a ball and die because all of the life's been drained out of you. He'd been really surprised and impressed Harry and Clara had kept in touch. Harry wasn't one to stay friendly with exes. John secretly wished they hadn't.

All eight eyes lock on him. "Oooh Joohn!" Clara cries, waving her hand in the air as if he doesn't see her flailing her arms. John feels Sherlock sidle up to him.

"Clara," John acknowledges. "And hello ladies," he smiles and nods at the other three women.

Clara introduces the three mystery women. The first is Supreet, a tiny, perky Indian woman wearing a colorful, patterned headscarf and a matching dress. Next to her is Jasmine, a large Asian woman with piercing ice-blue contacts and a melodious voice. Lastly is Melinda, a tall, we're talking Amazonian-tall, pale-skinned, buff woman with a gravelly voice.

"Your friend!" Clara nods over John's shoulder. "I…oops, I forgot his name. It was something exotic, yeah?"

"Um. This is Sherlock," John says, pulling Sherlock to the forefront. Sherlock just stands there, mute, so John elbows him in the ribs.

"Hello," Sherlock says to his chagrin.

"Hi Sherlock," the table sings in unison. John takes a seat in the middle of the three empty chairs, and Sherlock sits to his right, next to Clara. Poor sod.

"It's so nice of you to come, John," Clara says in that faux-sweet, trademarked tone of hers. "Harry will be over the moon!"

"Mm. Yeah, I hope so," John says plainly. John spares a look at Sherlock, who's uncharacteristically quiet and calm.

"Oi, there she is!" Melinda croaks.

Harry bounds through the people and her mouth drops and eyes dart every which way as she approaches the table. "Clara! You prick!" Harry says affectionately.

"Surprise!" Clara shouts.

"She got you guys in on this too?" Harry says, addressing the three other girls and ignoring John and Sherlock as she takes the empty seat.

"When Clara turns on the charm, you just get sucked in," Melinda says with a smirk. "You know how that is, 'course."

"Shut up, Mel," Harry says with an amused smile. "You guys got me. Fuck you all."

John clears his throat, just to be an asshole. Harry turns to look at John, then gives him a nice, hard punch just below the shoulder. John rubs at the spot with a wrinkled nose because Harry sure can pack a punch. "John. I can't fucking believe you're here."

"Yeah, hi to you too, Harry."

Harry gives him a nudge this time and it's soft, playful and, not to be cheesy, warms the cockles of John's heart to feel even a modicum of camaraderie between them.

"Oh my god," Harry says, turning her attention to Sherlock. She looks like she's about to swoop down on Sherlock with her talons and feed on him. "I've been wanting to meet you for a really, really long time. But you know me and John. We're both completely stubborn and angry a lot. Usually at each other. So. Great!"

Sherlock doesn't react so John pushes Sherlock's thigh with his. "Charmed," is all he says.

"Sir!" Supreet calls out and a waiter comes and takes everyone's orders for food and drink.

\\

Melinda, Supreet and Jasmine are surprisingly chill and lovely. His opinion of Harry improves a bit because of her choice of friends. Harry and the women reminisce a bit, laugh a bit, poke fun a bit, give gifts. John gives Harry a new watch, on behalf of him and Sherlock and she actually hugs him.

The night is not as bad as John had anticipated.

After they finish eating Harry turns to John and rakes a hand through her curly blonde hair. John anticipates a lot of invasive questions. "So. John. Your boyfriend's real quiet. I thought you said in your blog he yammers on like no tomorrow?"

John doesn't even bat an eyelash, because he's so used to everyone assuming. "He's not my boyfriend, Harry."

Harry rolls her eyes. "De Nile is a river in Egypt, Johnny."

"You'd look odd together," Clara comments brashly. Melinda and Supreet exchange a look. John watches Sherlock, who looks at John with a blank expression, from the corner of his eye.

Sure, John's appreciative of Sherlock's superb behaviour but it's kind of worrying at the same time because it's simply_ not Sherlock_. Sherlock had agreed to accompany him to Harry's birthday, and that is exactly what he's doing.

But. John doesn't like when Sherlock doesn't act like Sherlock even if it means he's acting "normally."

"I don't think so," Jasmine says boldly, taking a meagre sip of her martini. "I think they'd be interesting. When people who are in a relationship look too much alike, it freaks me out. I see it really quite often."

"Um I look like Clara, kind of," Harry says with a crooked grin. Clara sticks out her tongue.

"In your dreams," Clara says.

"Yeah, and it freaked me out," Jasmine says, giggling.

"Bastard," Harry says, throwing a crumpled napkin at Jasmine, who dodges it.

"Johnny," Clara says, and John cringes inwardly because Harry's the only one who is allowed to say that. Clara had called him that when she and Harry dated and John never had the heart to tell her not to, even if he didn't like her very much. "You know I read your blog?"

"Oh?" John says, feigning care.

"Blog?" Supreet asks.

"Johnny keeps a blog about Sherlock's cases. For Scotland Yard." Harry leans back in her chair and stretches. "Though, It reads to me like one of those blogs where teenage girls write about their celebrity crushes."

John lets out a long, exasperated sigh. "Murders. I write about murders, for god's sake, Harry."

"Wait, so you're a police officer?" Melinda asks Sherlock with narrowed eyes. "I bloody hate coppers. No offence. They always have it out for me."

"No. I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock says. It's the most he's said all night.

"Only one in the world," John supplies proudly.

"That's brilliant!" Supreet exclaims. "How much does it pay? What's the best case you've been on? Gosh, I guess I should just read the blog!"

"It's essentially freelance. I don't only work _with_ Scotland Yard. I have clients. The money doesn't matter to me much, though," Sherlock says.

"Well, what I was _going_ to say," Clara says petulantly, eyeing Melinda then Supreet antagonistically for stealing her thunder, "Is that, from reading your blog, Johnny, I can completely believe that you and he aren't together. Completely! He's way out of your league." The table goes dead silent except for Harry, who hisses, "Clara!" If Harry's the one doing the scolding, then you know something is _not okay_. Clara continues, anyway. "He's this big genius detective and you're just a wee broken soldier scraping for an adrenaline high!"

John feels it instantaneously, he feels his nearly-healed wound opens and gushes gushes gushes and she's right, Sherlock would never be able to love him, never, he's too good for him, that's why they fuck and just fuck and do nothing else and he fucking hates Clara and wishes he never fucking came to this fucking stupid birthday party and what the fuck does she know, that—

"It must be hard seeing your ex-girlfriend living her life, being happier than she ever was with you. You don't know it yet, but she just recently got a new partner. Or perhaps you suspect it, and that's why you're so bitter? Selfish. Harry doesn't want to tell you because she fears you'll become too clingy and pine for her back. She's likely correct. I can tell by the tiny bits of debris on your shoulder, your cheap, wrinkled skirt and hastily re-done makeup you've been around a construction site and fucked one of the architects against the wall in return for his services to your flat, which is falling apart because you don't have enough money to fix it up. You've been on the hunt for a higher-paying job but no one will hire you because you don't have enough work experience. Now, John is the finest man I know and I will not have you demeaning him to a 'broken soldier scraping for an adrenaline rush' because he is not that, he's more than you and I will ever be."

The table is a mixture of shock, awe and amusement.

John looks at Sherlock, blocking out everyone else's faces because they don't matter, not now, and his eyes well up and, god, why such an intrusive surge of emotion? Why is Sherlock so wonderful?

It's the most wonderful thing Sherlock's ever done, said about him and he feels so, so much glorious affection for the man. John's chest tightens and heart pounds loudly against his ribcage and eyes water a bit more and he just wants to—

He leans and grabs Sherlock's face in between his palms, turns it toward him and smothers the beautiful man with a heated kiss on the lips.

* * *

><p>Thanks for readingreviewing. :)


	4. Chapter 4

After John pulls away from the kiss he feels a bit drunk, but maybe that's just the alcohol kicking in. His lips linger in the air for a few seconds, and he stares longingly at Sherlock's plump, pink lips. Sherlock looks like he's made a revelation. John wants to kiss those lips again. Wants to eat them whole. That's all he wants. Kisses. Plain, old, heated, glorious kisses.

Even if he's drunk, he still has the decency not to do that in front of his sister.

John turns to Harry, who looks stunned and amused and delighted all at once, and smiles. "Um," he flushes, "Happy Birthday, Harry. Think we'll be off now." John gets up and nearly trips over the chair. He tugs at Sherlock's sleeve lazily to prove his point that they'll be leaving. Sherlock obediently follows John through the crowd of pub-goers into the cold night air.

"All right?" John asks Sherlock. He feels a bit dizzy.

"Fine." Sherlock looks away. John thinks he's lying, he has questions, but he doesn't say anything because he's not sure the words will fall into proper places. John watches him wearily for a few seconds more, and then steps to the kerb to hail a cab.

The ride is quiet on the way back to Baker Street, but John is still riding the high of the kiss. John doesn't like how quiet Sherlock is, but his chest is ready to burst with glee and he will not let Sherlock bring him down. Even though Sherlock's the one who has just brought him…up.

When they get into their sitting room and remove their outer garb, Sherlock immediately starts toward his room.

"Sherlock," John says with authority. Sherlock makes an abrupt stop, lets John creep up behind him. He turns around to face John.

John reaches out to stroke Sherlock's arm, and keeps his hand on Sherlock's bicep. "Don't understand why you're acting like this."

"Acting like what?" Sherlock says.

"Acting…acting like. I don't know. Like you hate me?" It's a juvenile thing to say, John knows, but how could Sherlock be acting so sulky after what he'd said about John? After the wonderful things he'd said about John? He wants to get closer to Sherlock and does so gracelessly, stumbling forward, bracing his hand on Sherlock's chest to steady himself. He keeps his hand there as Sherlock talks, and the rumble of Sherlock's voice reverberates deliciously throughout his body.

"I could never hate you, John."

John looks up, his eyes soft and gleaming like a desperate child yearning for more adulation. "Can I kiss you again?"

Sherlock sighs. "You're drunk. I should go—"

"Did you really mean what you said back there?" John blurts, smoothing his palm across Sherlock's chest which is warm, hard and familiar.

"If I hadn't meant it I wouldn't have said it."

John grins. "You're actually lovely, you know that? I never thought I'd say that about you. Lovely. Ha. What a strange word to describe Sherlock bloody Holmes," John thinks out loud.

Sherlock looks somewhere over John's head. "Mm."

"Going to bed?" John asks suddenly.

"That's what it looks like, doesn't it."

John pokes a finger into Sherlock's chest. "Fantastic. Let's go then," John says excitedly. "Back in a sec, okay? Wait for me, okay? Good." John doesn't leave right away because he feels really good standing this close to Sherlock. It's brilliant how a man of such frigid demeanor could radiate such exuberant warmth.

John drags his finger up and watches its path with fascination, continues up Sherlock's black button-down shirt, until he gets to the exposed V of creamy white skin. The contrast is breathtaking, John thinks. John looks up but Sherlock's not looking at him, apparently preoccupied with something in the next room. He wants to kiss Sherlock so badly. John leans in and places a wet kiss near the dip of the V. Sherlock steps back.

John smiles, satisfied, turns and makes his way to the stairs. He climbs the stairs quickly, shuffles into his room to change into an old T-shirt and pyjama trousers. He brushes his teeth after accidentally bumping into the sink and meets Sherlock in his room.

Sherlock's sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching John carefully. He's changed into his robe and loose, matching grey pyjamas.

"You want to sleep here," Sherlock says.

John blinks. He'd have thought that much was obvious. Especially for Sherlock. The room does a quick turn. "Ummmm. Yeah?"

"You want to _only_ sleep here," Sherlock persists.

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock," John says, climbing onto the bed. "Have you finally cracked? Can you scoot over?"

"You should sleep in your bed."

"Make me," John says as he pushes Sherlock over, gets under the covers, turns on his side and looks up at Sherlock through narrowed eyes. Sherlock glances at him then looks at the wall.

"He-ey," John says softly as the room spins. He props his head on his hand and places his other hand on the top of Sherlock's knee. "You're really great, you know."

"So you've said."

John begins to rub his hand up Sherlock's thigh. His pyjamas trousers are cottony thin. "You're quite… magnificent, you know? Completely."

Sherlock sighs. "John. I don't think—"

"I can't begin to think how lucky I am."

"What?" Sherlock asks, eyes wide, attention now completely rapt on John. _Finally._

"You're just. You're just fantastic. Thank you, Sher…lock," John says with a crooked smile, squeezing Sherlock's thigh then letting go. He grabs a pillow and positions it under his head, nuzzles into it, and shuts his eyes. "Lights?" The lights go out promptly. "Gooood night, you."

Sherlock doesn't respond. John falls asleep with a smile on his face.

\\

The next morning John wakes up with a headache and an empty space beside him. John feels the pillow beside him and it's cool, so that means Sherlock's been up for awhile now. John looks at the clock. It's 11:00 am.

John yawns and pushes himself out of the bed reluctantly, and pads downstairs. Sherlock's not anywhere in sight. He fills the kettle up with water, sets it on the stove, turns on the heat, folds his arms across his chest and waits.

John sadly watches the blue of the fire flicker and caress the bottom of the kettle. His head is pounding and he misses Sherlock. He misses him even though he hadn't been gone long. Misses him even though John slept in the same bed as him last night.

John wishes Sherlock hadn't up and left without telling him where he was going because John would have gladly woken up to follow. He would always follow.

The kettle whistles and pulls him out of his mind. He pours the boiling water into a mug, adds a tea bag and sugar, stirs it, and sets it down on the kitchen table. He gets out his mobile and texts Sherlock.

_Where are you? _

John doesn't get a text back immediately and he starts to worry. He tries calling Sherlock, but to no avail.

Two hours later, just as he's about to call Sherlock for the umpteenth time, the door slams downstairs and Sherlock's familiar tread is heard.

Sherlock simply nods at John and hangs up his coat and scarf.

"Hey," John says. "Where've you been?"

"Scotland Yard," Sherlock replies coldly.

If words could sting. "Oh. Easy one, then?" Why hadn't Sherlock asked him to come? There had to be a reason. It was probably an easy case that Sherlock was able to solve in a few hours.

"Indeed," is all Sherlock says and heads toward his room. Five minutes later he appears, clad in his pyjamas and robe. It's only 2 PM. Sherlock flops onto the sofa.

"You all right?" John asks, as he takes a seat across from sulky-Sherlock-on-the-sofa.

"Fine," Sherlock says bitingly.

John clenches his teeth. "You're obviously not fine."

"Some silence would be marvelous right now. I'm tired," Sherlock says, turning away so that his back is facing John.

"Sherlock…" John says, stunned.

"Problem?"

John shifts uncomfortably in his seat, takes a deep breath. "Is this, for some ridiculous reason, about last night?"

Sherlock says, mockingly, "Oh. You remember last night?"

"I don't understand," John says, his blood beginning to boil, "how you possibly could be angry about last night. We didn't do anything."

"Precisely!" Sherlock says into the sofa cushion. Since it's muffled, it loses its effect.

"Sherlock." John clenches and unclenches his hands. He doesn't want this to escalate. He mustn't allow it to escalate. "Can you just talk to me? Like a normal human being. Face to face. Instead of giving me your bloody back."

Sherlock suddenly bolts to attention and stands. "You want to talk? Fine. Brilliant. Let's talk." Sherlock paces between the coffee table and sofa until he halts to throw a glare at John. "I thought you were different, John. I thought you had more control. You broke our contract."

"What the hell are talking about?" John says, caught off-guard.

"You know what you said to me yesterday? 'I can't begin to think how lucky I am.'"

John sputters, "I was drunk, Sherlock. I didn't mean—"

"I should have listened to you. It _was_ a bad idea. _Normal_ people can't detach emotion from sex. You're just like everyone else."

John feels like he's been punched in the gut. "That's not what you said last night. To Clara."

"We should forget this ever happened between us," Sherlock says, ignoring John's comment. "I will delete it."

John's feeling increasingly unsure of what part of Sherlock's ranting to respond to so goes with, "You can't just delete it, Sherlock!"

Sherlock stands up straighter, looks down his nose at John. "Yes. I can."

"Jesus fuck," John says, scrubbing a hand down his face. He didn't know what to think or say.

Sherlock begins to pace again. "I don't do relationships, John. At all. Never will. The sex was really good while it lasted and I'll mourn the loss of it, but we cannot continue if you are…if you have feelings for me. You have feelings for me, yes? You shouldn't. I want to hear you say it. Then our contract will be completely rescinded and we can go on as usual. You are going to need to go on as usual." Sherlock stops abruptly, again, to stare daggers at John. He's waiting for a response.

John looks away. Did he have any feelings for Sherlock Holmes? He wasn't supposed to. But he did, didn't he? How could he have let this happen? Fuck! How could he have feelings for this cold, calculative, machine-of-a-man? Who treated sex like a business agreement? Who believed it was just that easy to throw away feelings? Who treated John's feelings like they were nothing?

Sex by itself never worked. Never in the history of…history had it worked. So, yes, John wanted Sherlock. He didn't just want his body, he wanted everything.

But Sherlock wanted nothing. So. There was only one thing to do.

John shakes his head, not believing the words that spill from his mouth. "I think…I think I should go, then."

Sherlock's eyes widen and his whole expression becomes softer. "What?"

John rises from his seat. He feels numb. "Yeah. I think I'll go. Think it's best."

Sherlock's fiery demeanor has completely softened now and John feels a bit triumphant, even if he's a bit broken too. "That's, um, not what I intended."

"Well isn't that a shame?" John retorts. His heart is thrumming in his chest. It hurts to look at Sherlock. "Maybe Sarah will let me hang around for awhile. Or Emily. Or Kayla." Emily and Kayla did not want any form of relationship with John, since they were the ones who'd broken it off. And he and Sarah had a mutual agreement. Wouldn't want to subject someone to unrequited feelings!

"John," Sherlock says pleadingly. He's stepping closer. John does the same.

"Right, yes. Sorry. I'm supposed to say the words to make this official." John gets into Sherlock's personal space, looks up into those icy blue eyes. Boldly, he announces, "I have feelings for you Sherlock Holmes." _I want your everything_, he doesn't say. "Pleasure doing business with you." John holds out his hand. Sherlock flicks a look down at his hand, then looks back to John's face, darts his eyes around it helplessly. There's nothing left for Sherlock to read.

Sherlock doesn't shake his hand, and John's arm is getting tired. He lowers his arm, grabs his mobile, walks upstairs to his room and scrolls through his contacts until he finds Sarah's number.

* * *

><p>AN:<p>

Gah, I'm sorry this took so long to post. Thank you for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

It turns out that Sarah is having her sisters over for a month, so John cannot impose. He calls Emily and she happily agrees to let him stay over for "as long as you like, cutie." Thank god John had parted with all of his exes as friends. Staying with Mike would have been far too awkward since he's married with children, and Greg, well, John thought it'd be best to stay with someone who wasn't friends with Sherlock. Better yet if they didn't even know him.

He's to head over to Emily's tomorrow morning. After getting off the call with Emily, John packs the necessities and neatly places it all into his old OTC duffel bag, then sits on the edge of the bed and stares at himself in the mirror.

Right. What is he supposed to do for the next few hours? He can't just stay in his room in hopes of avoiding Sherlock.

Oh yes he can. His laptop's here after all. There's some reading too.

John forces himself to fall asleep early, around 9, and wakes up at 7 in the morning. He changes out of his pyjamas into jeans and a button-down then carefully goes down the stairs, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

Sherlock's awake and sitting on the floor of the sitting room looking utterly debauched, his hair and clothes are mussed, and he's rifling through dusty books and outdated newspapers. It looks like he's broken out the cold cases. When Sherlock breaks out the cold cases John knows he's desperate for preoccupation.

But John doesn't care. He really doesn't.

Sherlock does not look at him and John doesn't say a word as he sets down the duffel bag and goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth, wash his face and relieve himself. He returns to the sitting room and Sherlock is still not looking at him. John picks up the duffel bag, puts the strap over his shoulder, spares Sherlock one last glance then turns to the door.

"John," Sherlock says just as his foot is about to move forward. His voice is quiet. "Don't."

John inhales sharply and shakes his head. He doesn't turn around; he speaks to the door with a hard-set frown. "I won't be moving out just yet. I need to get away for awhile. I don't know when I'll be back, so don't wait up for me." John doesn't wait for Sherlock's response. He just trudges forward, flies down the stairs, then hails a cab to Emily's.

\\

"Oh, angel, tell me what happened. You only glossed through it over the phone," Emily asks him, later, when John's settled and they are sitting on the sofa together. John looks up from his lap to Emily, whose face is scrunched up in concern. She has a moon-shaped face with long, red hair and green eyes that perpetually seem to glitter with joy. She's Southern American, so the soft, comforting Southern accent does wonders to enforce her already generous personality.

John tells her everything, from start to finish, and he feels a weight lifted off him at the end of it. Emily doesn't do anything for a moment when he's stopped ranting then lunges forward and takes John in a strong embrace. It surprises John and he doesn't hug back, just lets the life be squeezed out of him. She releases him, looks him up and down then nods sagely. "You know what you need?"

"Someone to give me a nice slap for being such a bloody idiot?"

Emily punches John's shoulder light-heartedly. "No, silly man. You need a night of fun."

"Fun," John repeats the word blandly, and it feels foreign on his lips.

"Yeah, darlin'. Tomorrow night we're gonna go dancin'!"

"That's not going to help." John doesn't think that's a viable way to solve his problems. At all.

"Hush. It will. Trust me. Okay?"

John shrugs and sighs. "Okay."

\\

John leaves work and gets to Emily's, showers, and waits. And waits. And waits. Emily is supposed to be home from work by 5 and they're supposed to go to dinner then "go dancin'!" afterwards. It's 5:30. John calls her and she doesn't answer. Maybe she got stuck at work? Finally, near 6:00, the door opens and Emily steps inside.

John stands up. "I was worried."

Emily's uncharacteristically quiet, doesn't respond for a moment. She places down her purse and smiles at John. "I'm perfectly fine, sugar. Got held up at work, is all." John had thought so. "I'm gonna change into something a bit more dancey then we can head on out, okay." She gives John an appraisingly look. "My my, you clean up real good. You're gonna break some hearts tonight."

\\

"Fire. Why does that sound familiar?" John asks Emily as they step out of the cab and walk toward the entrance of the club.

"You tell me," Emily says jovially as her stilettos click clack on the pavement.

Once they get inside the techno blares and the neon lights blind and John remembers why it's so familiar. Harry had dragged him here once, before he was deployed. It was back when he and Harry were actually chummy.

John snakes an arm around Emily's waist, pulls her close, touches his mouth to her ear. "This is a gay club."

Emily laughs heartily and says to him, "You know, I always had a feeling you were gay when we were dating."

John's sighs long-sufferingly. "I'm not gay," John protests, for what feels like the millionth time. Once again, no one hears him say it. Emily just laughs and gives him a pat on the shoulder. They sit at the bar and Emily orders a lager for John and a Guinness for herself. She remembered what he likes. Emily is really such a wonderful friend. Why couldn't she have liked him a bit more when they were dating? Where did John go wrong? He wouldn't be in this situation if she'd kept him around.

But would John have even wanted to stick around? He should. But the hard, honest truth is that he doesn't. He wants something else entirely. Something highly unattainable.

"Drink up," Emily says, nudging the lager closer to John and winking. "This is your night. Lordy, there are beautiful men in here," she says while fanning herself theatrically and scanning the crowd of (mostly) fit dancing bodies. John doesn't want to disappoint her, so he chugs back all of his drink and slams it down onto the bar.

Emily slaps John's knee. Hard. "How about some more? Don't answer that. Mister!" she calls out for the bartender.

They repeat this cycle five more times until John's laughing at everything and bobbing to the bass like an absolute fool. Emily's faffed off to god knows where and John gets pulled by a floppy-haired, tan, shirtless beefy bloke onto the dance floor. Not quite John's type but John's too far gone to care. He lets the man lead him through the crowd without a struggle. Once they decide on a spot, the beefy guy crushes himself against John and they bounce to the steady rhythm of the music together for awhile.

Soon, the man is leaning down to kiss John and John is gladly offering his lips, cannot wait, in fact, just as someone fits himself behind him. His partner stops mid-way to John's mouth. Damn. When his dance partner looks over John's shoulder, his face goes through a slideshow of expressions, then he steps back and practically runs away. John laughs at that.

John tries to turn but the man behind him is strong and forces his head forward with two cold, large hands. How can anyone have cold hands in this sweltering room unless they just came in from outside? John doesn't actually care because it feels fantastic on his flushed face. John gets the message and his mystery dance partner releases his hands and slides them down his chest slowly, indulgently, all the way to his thighs. It feels so good that John presses and grinds back into his partner's groin, a plea to be touched more. He needs to be touched more. He already misses it so much.

John can feel that the man is hard now, since his erection is desperately forcing its way in between John's arsecheeks. It's so intimate and odd since it's a complete stranger, but John is definitely enjoying the attention (and will take anything at this point). Besides, he probably isn't going to remember anything about tonight come tomorrow.

They sway together to the music for what feels like ages but it's really only for one song. When the song changes, the stranger steps away. John instantly feels frighteningly bare without those strong hands, that spindly body, that hard cock pressed against him. When he whips around there's no one there. "Fuck!" John shouts, and plows through the crowd to the bar. It's not fair. Just as he was starting to really enjoy himself, everything crashes and burns. Where the hell is Emily?

"John!" Emily says, on cue, waving from across the bar. John blinks lazily and reassess that, yes, that's definitely Emily. She says something to the woman next to her, gets up and jogs over to him. Her breasts are spilling out of her dress. They weren't at the beginning of the night. John finds himself looking. How could you not?

"I need to use your phone. Mine died," she yells over the music.

John tears his gaze from her chest, comprehends what she's saying a bit longer than he should have, nods, struggles to find his pocket and pulls out his mobile.

"Can you come with me outside? Not very keen on waitin' out there alone."

\\

"Thanks John," she says with a wink. John can still feel the pounding of the bass in his ears. It's a bit nippy outside, so he zips up his jacket and shifts from one foot to the other to keep warm. "I'll just be a sec." She walks to the wall and makes her call.

John looks to his left then feels someone grab his waist and press up behind him. "Oi!" he cries. He's too drunk to attack. Turns out he doesn't need to attack, since the man's long frame is so very familiar.

"Ooh," John says and laughs. "It's you. How the hell did you find me? I canbarely tell anyone apart in there," John slurs. He notices the erection again since it's conveniently pressed against his arse. "Mate, you know I could help you out with that, you know. Wouldn't mind 'tall."

The man doesn't say anything, but John feels soft, wet lips press against his neck. John moans and unashamedly stretches his neck to the side for more. The man kisses the same spot, then bites down possessively. "Jesus, mate, I get it. You kind of want to have a fuck maybe. We don't need to do this out here. We can—um, well, we could do your place. You know it'd be nice if you let me, um, look at you. Don't give a fuck what you look like."

John turns but the man has jumped behind him once again. "You're a funny one," John says. "I'll play." John waits a moment, laughs, then turns around sharply. The man's dodged it again. John turns, turns, turns, and the man dodges being seen every time. John throws up his hands and laughs. "You're good. I surrender. Now when do we get to fuck?" He hadn't meant to say that bit out loud. He was talking pretty loudly too. "Bollocks."

John's sight is shrouded by a black cloth and he stumbles backwards, but the man catches him and sets him straight. "Woah. I guess we're still playing. Okay then!" The cloth is made snug around his head with a knot, and the stranger kisses his jaw sweetly. He can't see but he feels the man towering over him and all John needs to do it reach up and pull off the cloth to see—

The man grabs John's wrist warningly in its ascent toward the cloth. "Right-o. Your rules," John says and laughs, lowering his arm. He'll go along with whatever the hell this is. John would be lying if he said he wasn't even a bit intrigued. The man squeezes John's shoulders, and John gets the hint. John taps his foot to the beat of the muffled bass inside the club as he waits. The next thing he knows he's being led inside a car by the stranger and they're heading somewhere John doesn't know and John's heart is beating excitedly with the thrill of it all.

During the ride, John shares a story with the stranger about the time he cooked eyeballs because Sherlock had switched the baby onion jar with the eyeball jar. This leads to ramble about how magnificent Sherlock Holmes is, even though he's an uncaring bastard, even though he switched the baby onion jar with the eyeball jar. John doesn't stop talking about Sherlock until they pull to the stop and the stranger leads him out of the car, makes him wait as he opens his door, leads him up a bunch of steps which creak just the way 221b does. Did. Does.

John's left standing awkwardly in a room. "Nice place you got here," John says and laughs. "When do I get to take this off?" The stranger removes John's jacket, gives him another kiss on the jaw, and leads him forward, again. "Oi," John says and lets himself be dragged. "Maybe now is a bad time to think that you're a serial killer?" John laughs at his own joke. At least _he_ thinks he's hilarious.

John is pushed onto the bed and the stranger crawls atop him. John reaches up to feel the man's face. If he can't see, he'll feel his way to determine what the man looks like. He places his palm on a cheek, which has a sharp cut of cheekbone. The skin is silky smooth. John rubs his thumb against the lips, they feel lush and a bit wet. John pushes all thoughts out of his mind that this man may be Sherlock's other other brother. "Everything seems to be in place," John giggles and reaches up to the black cloth.

The man pins both of John's wrists above his head. "Okay, okay. It's a kink, then? I get it. Fine with me, mate. We all have kinks." The man sits on John's stomach, leans down and takes John's mouth with his own. Their mouths move together messily at first until they get the hang of it and John feels tingly. The man releases one of John's arms and John palms the man's hardness underneath his trousers. The man makes a small noise. "You like that, yeah? It's the first sound I've heard from you all night. Can't wait to hear you _scream_."

The man begins to unbutton John's shirt, thrusting it open to reveal his bare skin. The man dips his head and sucks at a nipple then his tongue flicks at the nub. "Yeah. That's it," John grits out.

John reaches out to grip the man's slender hips, pushes him back so that he's sitting directly on John's groin, then thrusts upward. "Rock for me," John growls. The man does so by undulating his hips forward and backwards over and over and John becomes harder than a rock. "Touch me," John orders. The man slides his hands up from John's waistband across his chest, the same way he did at the club, as if John's body is expensive silk. He massages John's stomach flesh with those wonderful hands then, with the heels of his palms, rubs at John's nipples ever-so-lightly, then kisses John's sternum. It feels insanely good. "I need to get out of thesefucking trousers fucking hell," John says, squirming underneath the man's weight. The man slaps John's hand away from his zip and instead places kisses up his chest reverently, up his neck, then mouth. It's more chaste than John would have expected and John's squirming again. Okay. Hold on. This is not usually how one-night stands go. It's usually just: bed, business, never see each other again.

So. It's only _now _that this is all starting to feel a bit weird.

John remains still in response to the man's incredibly intimate kisses he's generously placing on John's chest, neck and mouth, mouth, neck, chest. He blinks dumbly. His chest heaves. He's hard and it feels so good, the careful kisses, the touches. But it doesn't feel right. He waits for the apt moment, when the man is preoccupied somewhere by his stomach, then pulls off the black cloth in a swift motion.

Holy fuck.

He was not _nearly_ drunk enough for this.

There, looking back at him, is Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock has the audacity to say, "I can explain," in that detached, monotone voice of his, and hell if John's going to listen to the explanation of the man who broke his heart then kidnapped him while he was three sheets to the wind only _the day after_ he broke John's heart in order to have a fuck.

John clumsily pushes Sherlock away and tries to scramble out of the bed without issue but, instead, he falls over the edge and hits the ground with a loud thump. He buries his face in his hands, which are sweaty and shaky, and yells into them, "Have you lost your mind?"

The question could probably be posed to himself or Sherlock but its main purpose is for Sherlock.

"John, you need to calm down."

"I need to calm down," John mimics incredulously. Then he starts to laugh. The laughter spirals into something manic and doesn't stop until John feels a body pressing itself next to him. It feels nice, to have the warmth, to feel Sherlock's body, his lovely body, beside him again even if he doesn't know whether to scream at or kiss Sherlock.

Sherlock slings a leg over John's knees and sits in his lap, takes John's face in between his hands, bends down and presses their foreheads together. "Listen to me. You need to listen."

"When do I not listen to you?" John asks blearily. He does not try to push Sherlock away. His hands gravitate to Sherlock's hips. He curses at himself internally for being so weak.

"You can't leave. I don't want you to leave."

"Youmade that pretty clear by fucking kidnapping me like…like…"

Sherlock kisses John's forehead. "Promise you'll stay."

"Um I said I was staying but—"

"Promise you will not go back to Emily's. I'll have someone pick up your things."

"Why? Are you jealous?" John says, his lip curling.

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock answers huffily.

"I…Jesus fuck, Sherlock. I just wanted…I needed just needed some time to clear my head…clear my head of _you. _Andhere you are…now. Ruining everything."

"Don't."

John hiccups. "Don't what? You like that word. Can you not be so cryptic? I can barely understand myself right now let alone you."

Sherlock pushes John's shirt off his shoulders, helps him be rid of it completely. "Don't clear your head of me." Sherlock runs a finger up John's chest, as light as a feather, toward his bad shoulder. He stops before he's touching the scar. "Because I can't clear my head of you. Do you know how troubling that is for me? I want to be with you too, John. Are you hearing me?"

John doesn't quite understand what's going on here. His heart is pounding and he wishes it would stop getting excited for no reason. "What are you trying to say?"

Sherlock groans. "I'm asking you if you will you have me. Will you have me, John?"

The room spins as John rewinds and replays what Sherlock had just said. It didn't make much sense. Sherlock Holmes did not want to be with him. He doesn't _do_ relationships. Never _will._

He had captured John while he was drunk off his arse…to play mind games? John can't believe Sherlock is playing him like this just so he can have sex! John is angry now, gripping the cloth of Sherlock's hips a bit too roughly. An angry drunk Watson is never a good thing, so he'll have to avert a disaster by leaving.

He pushes Sherlock hard, hard enough that the man tumbles off his legs and hits the floor, his hands breaking the fall, his legs askew, his eyes wide and confused. He hadn't expected that one, had he? Good. Conceited bastard.

John grabs his discarded shirt with purpose, stands up and almost trips over his own feet as he stomps out the door and upstairs to his bedroom. He slams the door, falls onto the bed face first and is taken by sleep.

\\

He wakes up with a pounding headache and a bout of nausea. Of course.

"Good morning," a deep voice says and John jumps skittishly and unconsciously reaches for the drawer that contains his Sig Sauer. He calms down when he sees it's only Sherlock (_only_ Sherlock?) sitting on the chair on the other side of the room, knees up to his chest like an overgrown child, an introspective look on his face. Sherlock juts his chin to indicate a location, "Paracetamol and water are there on your side table."

"Christ, I almost shot you." John reaches for the Paracetamol and downs two tablets with a slug of water. "Were you there all night?"

Sherlock considers. "Mm, almost."

"Jeeeesus I feel like someone hit me with an anvil."

"Six lagers will do that."

John closes his eyes, massaging his temples. "…how do you know how much I drank?" The night comes back to him like snippets of a long film, it's not everything, but it gives John the general idea of the plot. He remembers bits of Emily, dinner, the club, a mysterious stranger who turned out to be—

"Sherlock," John begins slowly, drags out the name. He'll need to tread slowly, carefully here. He's not going to get angry. He does not feel up to the task of being angry. "Is it my alcohol addled brain imagining it or did you kidnap me last night?"

When John opens his eyes, Sherlock's sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at John with a look of complacency. John hadn't even heard him move. "I did."

John inhales sharply and clenches the sheets. Maybe he should have taken out his gun after all. "…and you thought that was okay."

"How else would you have come back to me?" He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Maybe he should call Lestrade now and turn himself in for the murder of Sherlock Holmes? It would be the polite thing to do. "Oh, I don't know! Maybe if you phoned me. Had a civil chat over the phone. Said 'sorry John, I was an idiot and had no regard for your feelings whatsoever. Please forgive me.' Maybe that would've bloody worked, you twat!" He shouldn't yell, but he couldn't help it. His head is throbbing.

"You wouldn't have wanted to speak to me."

Right, he had a point. John calms down marginally. "All I wanted was space. Was that so much to ask?" John feels he's missing something here. Something important. Something that happened that night that he can't remember.

"You don't need space you need me."

John scoffs loudly. "You think you're the solution to my problem? You're the problem to my problem!"

"How eloquent."

"Sherlock!" John's trying not to yell. Really trying.

Sherlock looks at the wall behind John. "You never answered my question."

"What damn question?" John grits out.

Sherlock looks at John. "Will you have me?"

John takes a huge breath. It's not something that he needs to reflect on so he says, "Yes" with a gust of exhale. "Wait. What?"

Sherlock grimaces but he doesn't make a snide remark. John's impressed by his restraint. "I had time to think about it and I came to the conclusion that I was running from something important. I don't want to end what we have."

John groans. Sherlock's absolutely _unbelievable_! "You mean you don't want to end our little agreement of having sex without the _petty_ emotional attachment. Jesus Christ, Sher—"

"No," Sherlock cuts in forcefully, "Ever since you let me fuck you I was wary of the, um, developments. I was shutting down everything I felt for you. I didn't want to believe it." Sherlock's eyes have lost that unreadable barrier and glisten with sincerity. He's open and John can read him too well.

John's not still drunk is he? "God. This is for real. We're actually having a conversation about your _feelings_. For me."

"John," Sherlock warns. He's serious.

He's actually serious.

John feels infinitely calmer. Did he just have a headache? He feels fantastic.

"Right. Wow. This is, um." John shakes his head in disbelief. "Wow. This almost makes up for the kidnapping stint. I mean, who the hell _does _that?"

Sherlock smirks and climbs onto the bed so that he's sitting at John's hip. "You accept me, then."

"_Accept_ you?" John repeats hysterically, reaching out to brush a curl of hair away from Sherlock's forehead. That was almost involuntary. "I want to _engulf_ you."

Sherlock says, practically growling, "Show me."

"Gladly." John throws the duvet onto the floor and collides with Sherlock's mouth bruisingly. He licks at Sherlock's bottom lip and Sherlock opens his mouth, lets John in, and their tongues entwine in a desperate dance. John's hands slide up Sherlock's neck and rake through his hair as their mouths continue to mesh together. Sherlock's started removing his shirt so John joins in to help and together it's removed in record time. John pulls his shirt over his head and Sherlock pushes him backwards and kisses up from the trail of light hair by his groin to his collarbone.

"C'mere," John says, reaching up to pull the zip down Sherlock's trousers and his hard cock springs free. He hadn't worn any pants. He was prepared for this to happen. "I'm surprised you can get through doors with that massive ego."

Sherlock smirks and wiggles out of the trousers and sits right on John's thinly clothed pyjama bottoms, slides John's cock between his spread arsecheeks and rides it. The friction probably feels incredible if Sherlock's slack and blissful face is anything to go by. It sure feels incredible on John's end.

"God," John says, watching Sherlock through hooded lids, "Look at you. Could watch you do that all day."

Sherlock leans down and kisses and sucks John's lips for a full minute, then pulls away breathlessly. "I cannot stop kissing you."

"I need to get out of these," John says, his mind zoning in on one thing—his hard and insistent cock. Sherlock gets on his knees to give John space to remove the trousers, then his pants. Sherlock rolls over onto his side and John follows, slotting himself behind. He takes his cock in hand and drags it up the crescent dip of Sherlock's lower back. Sherlock moans, raises his leg and clamps down on John's cock so it's caught between his taut thighs. Sherlock squeezes lightly and it's John's turn to moan.

"Oh my god," John says helplessly, as Sherlock rubs his thighs together. John bites down on his lip hard and lets Sherlock roll his cock between his strong thighs. He reaches over to grab Sherlock's cock, and strokes his gratitude. Sherlock makes a strangled noise at the touch. "God, Sherlock. Yes."

"Lube's underneath the pillow." Sherlock opens his thigh and waits. John reluctantly reaches for the pillow.

"Of course it is." John retrieves the tube and slicks himself quickly, then traces the curve of Sherlock's behind, teasingly avoiding his entrance. "Beautiful. You're beautiful. Have I ever told you that?"

"I certainly don't mind you saying it," Sherlock says and John can just hear his smile. John presses a chaste kiss to his bony shoulder.

"You wouldn't, would you," John says amicably.

"I can't kiss you from this position. It's unfortunate."

John pulls Sherlock's thigh up with the crook of his arm, then traces the pink ring of Sherlock's hole with his free hand. Sherlock shudders. He presses a finger inside and Sherlock pushes back.

"Yes," Sherlock hisses. John circles slowly in the tight heat with his finger and gives Sherlock's arm a kiss. He's never been this slow with Sherlock and it's refreshing. "More."

John presses another finger and toys with the prostate. Sherlock moans so deeply, John feels it in his toes. "You now. I need you now. John."

John removes his fingers and touches the head of his cock by Sherlock's highly exposed hole. He's already leaking with pre-cum. Sherlock's arm is moving steadily, he's stroking himself. John presses in slowly, languorously, until he's connected with Sherlock completely.

"Fuck," John pants.

"Yes, exactly. Fuck. Now!"

John begins to move and it feels like heaven not just because of the incredible sensation, but it feels _right_ to be doing this and doing it with purpose. Sherlock is his now. He is Sherlock's.

"You're mine now," John articulates as he snaps his hips forward and Sherlock cries out and moves his hand frantically on his cock.

Sherlock's head lolls back and he says, guttural and very much caught in the moment, "Yours now. Always." Sherlock pushes back as John thrusts forward hard so that his balls are slapping against the cushion of Sherlock's arse.

They continue like that for awhile until John is being pushed from the brink of his orgasm. He basks in every moment. This makes up for all the meaningless shags, the unspoken words.

They will make up for all that had been lost.

"John," Sherlock cries as he comes. John follows quickly after and they just remain, slumped together. John pulls out, cringing, and tries to wipes away the cum that trickles down Sherlock and onto the sheets. He'll just put it in the laundry later. He pushes himself up and Sherlock turns onto his back, pulls John down and kisses him.

"You didn't bruise my skin with your iron grip this time," John comments amusedly.

"You didn't curse like a sailor. Soldier."

John laughs. "Well. Uh. Things are different now."

"Capitol observation."

John gives Sherlock a light smack on the arm. Sherlock looks gorgeous from above, his curls fanned out in a halo, his cheeks flushed, his expression soft and relaxed. "We were idiots to think this wouldn't have happened. "

Sherlock shrugs and pets John's waist gently. "I truly believed it wouldn't happen. This doesn't happen. It's never happened. To me."

John leans on his one arm and holds out his other, offering a handshake. "Congratulations, Sherlock Holmes. You've been chosen for a relationship. You need to shake my hand or we can't seal this relationship. Don't worry, this is the hand that wasn't in your arse just a moment ago."

Sherlock chuckles. It's a wonderful, rare sound. Sherlock amuses John and takes John's hand, grips it tightly and gives it a satisfying pump. "It's sealed then."

John's heart soars. "Welcome to the John Watson organisation. I am quite happy to have you."

"And I you," Sherlock says with a smile. He pulls John down, and they kiss.

**FIN**

* * *

><p>Thank you to everyone who reviewed! It was great motivation.<p>

This was supposed to be a one-chapter story but morphed into a lovely six chapters of angst and (really, only at the end) fluff. I hope you've enjoyed the ride.

Cheers!


End file.
